Malone didn’t react to that.
The kid had a canned presentation all ready, pointing out the spots in the bushes and brambles where the first two victims of the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run had been found, describing what he and Leonard had seen before they dashed off to tell their mother. Nothing in the kid’s account challenged anything Malone had read in the police reports. But the kid didn’t tell him anything new either.
“Whoever done it wasn’t trying to hide those bodies. They weren’t too hard to spot. The Butcher wanted people to see, I’m guessing,” Steve finished off, nodding like he hadn’t heard the exact assessment a thousand times.
“Hmm” was all Malone offered.
“He was proud of his work.”
“All right. Well, thank you for your time, Steve Jeziorski,” Malone said, turning away from the path that led down into the Run.
“You don’t look like a reporter . . . or a detective,” Steve said, following him.
“No?”
“Nah.”
“What if I was the Butcher? Come back to the scene of the crime?”
“Nah. You ain’t the Butcher either. I’ve thought about it. The Butcher . . . he thinks he’s a real funny guy. He thinks he’s smart too, but mostly he thinks he’s funny. You don’t seem like the kind of guy who laughs all that much. You could probably kill a fella. But you wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“That’s an interesting take. And you’re right. I wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“You look like a gangster.”
“Yeah? What gave me away?”
“Your face. Everyone around here is Polish or Hungarian or Czech. You’re slick. Your shoes . . . and your hat. You could be a banker, but nah. You look like a gangster.”
“Noted. You want to trade me hats?”
The boy hesitated. That surprised Malone. Steve’s hat was a checkered cap that had seen much better days. Malone’s hat was a black felt with a matching ribbon, and it was brand new.
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll trade,” Steve said.
Malone tucked a card with his number in the ribbon of the hat and handed it to the boy.
“You keep an eye out, Steve. You’re a smart kid. You think of something else, or you see someone prowling around here that doesn’t belong, you call and ask for Mike. At 5054 Broadway.”
“You’ll pay?”
“I’ll pay.”
The kid handed him the checkered cap, and Malone pulled it on.
“Much better.” Steve grinned. “Now you look like one of us.”
“Ha,” Malone grunted. “Give me your coat.”
The kid frowned.
Malone shrugged off his overcoat and extended it to the gaping boy.
“Are you serious?” Steve gasped.
“I can’t have folks thinking I’m a gangster.”
Steve checked his coat pockets and shoved a few coins and a book of matches into his overalls and handed his tattered jacket to Malone. His eyes were wide, and his hands shook as he buttoned the overcoat. “It’s too big, but I’ll grow into it. Leonard and my dad are both big.”
“What size are your feet?” Malone asked. He might as well go all the way.
Steve laughed, incredulous, but he shook his head. “I don’t know . . . but I need my boots. I can’t wear those to work.” He pointed at the spectators Malone wore on his feet.
“Where do you work?”
“Hart Manufacturing, near Twentieth and Central. My dad and Leonard work there too. I’m learning to be a toolmaker. It’s a good job. I’m lucky to have it.”
But Malone was only half listening. Hart Manufacturing. Where had he heard that before?
“You know what, kid? Your coat isn’t going to fit me. You keep it. You keep both of them. I’ll take the hat. It might save me from getting jumped.” He tossed the coat to Jeziorski, who caught it with the same ease with which he’d swiped the dime from the air.
“Ma’s gonna think I lifted these,” Steve Jeziorski said, his smile fading.
“Nah. You always tell the truth, remember? Tell her you helped a curious tourist.”
“A tourist? In Cleveland?”
“Ya got me there, kid,” Malone shot back, but he began to walk. Briskly. He didn’t have a coat anymore, and he’d just remembered where he’d heard of Hart Manufacturing.
Malone came in the front door of the shop at a quarter of four, shivering from the cold and wearing a cap that made him look like a delivery boy. Dani was changing the display and poked her head out from behind a dress form to greet him.
“I need an overcoat. And a new hat,” he said, clamping his hands beneath his armpits.
“Yes. I can see that you do. What happened to the ones you had?”
“I made a trade.”
“Willingly?” Dani teased, and he gave her a glimmer of a smile. One of these days he would grin at her.
“Yeah. Well. The kid needed them more than I did.”
He didn’t explain who “the kid” was, or why he was now in possession of a checkered cap, but she walked to a display and tugged down a lined and fur-collared overcoat and a matching fedora.
“This one will keep you warm, and it will look good with that hat,” she said, holding them out to him. He shook his head.
“Too flashy. I want to be warm and . . . nondescript.”
She hung them back up. “All right. I think we have a dark gray one in the back. It goes with everything. It’s a good neutral. It picks up the warmth when you’re wearing brown and doesn’t look too yellow when you go with the cooler tones. And this hat is a good shape for your face.” She plucked a charcoal-gray felt hat from a peg.
“Oh yeah? What shape is that?”
“Angular. The homburg is a nice compromise between the fedora and the bowler.”
“You sound like you’ve done this before.”
“Yes. Well . . . clothes are my thing.”
He handed Dani the checkered cap he wore and set the new one on his head.
It looked good on him, just as she’d thought it would, but she was immediately distracted by the dirty cap in her hands.